Checkmate
by Nina542
Summary: Five years after the death of her best friend Wells, Clarke becomes a suspect when Wells' killer is found dead. Looking for answers, she pairs with handsome and frustrating NYPD Officer Bellamy Blake and gets a set of numbers that changes everything. Trying to ignore Bellamy's strange behavior towards her, Clarke must find the truth before the real killer finds - and kills - them.
1. Prologue

**A/N: Hey, all! I'm really excited to share this new writing project with you. I've been planning it out for several weeks, and now that I'm practically done I feel like it's safe to start writing! I'm going to try _really hard_ to update once a week but I just can't make any guarantees. Research and accuracy are so important to me, so writing is a big process and takes time. But I will try, because once I get going it's hard to stop.**

**Okay, end rant. Please enjoy the prologue!**

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><p>It was always the same when she visited the prisoner. After she sat down in front of the glass wall, after she pulled the chair up close, after she picked up the internal telephone with slender fingers and set her shoulders, she would always feel a whoosh of emotion that came as the door on the other side opened. It always started with guilt. Then, the moment she saw the young man in the blue jumpsuit as he was escorted in, that guilt would snap into rage. She would sit rigidly, the receiver gripped tightly in her hand, as he made a show of cruising over to the waiting chair and sprawling out his gangly limbs. Leisurely, smugly, he would pick up the connecting phone. And when he held it up to his ear with a smirk on his face, brushing long greasy bangs from his forehead, the last thing Clarke Griffin would feel was the smothering pain of loss that seeped into her marrow and left her numb. Only then, staring into the cold, dead eyes of the man who had irreversibly fractured her, would Clarke speak.<p>

"You killed my best friend."

John Murphy's smirk widened in response. Slouched into his seat, his thick eyelids made it seem like he was only ever half awake. Like he was constantly bored with the world. He sniffed, then absently turned his attention to the stubbed nails of his free hand.

"You know, Clarke," Murphy said, focused on his cuticles,"some people would think that after four years you'd get a little creative. I thought you were supposed to be smart."

Clarke ignored the barb. "His name was Wells Jaha," she replied evenly, and it was almost automatic - the way his name flowed off her tongue and chest squeezed at the sound of his name. "He was seventeen years old, and wanted to become a botanist. He wanted to use plants to – "

" - cure diseases and save the world," Murphy interjected, looking back at her with those same bored eyes. That same arrogant smirk. "You know, Clarke, it's only a tragedy when you tell it the first time."

Clarke inhaled sharply, clenching her jaw as she reminded herself not to take the bait. Not this time. "Wells is dead because of you. He was an innocent kid with everything going for him, and you took that all away. You ended his life."

"Well…" Murphy stretched out his free arm and hooked his hand around the back of his neck, completely relaxed. "Technically it was the _car_ that ended his life. I was just driving it."

Clarke gripped the phone. Squeezing it, her clenched fist began to shake and she could hear the plastic creak against the force of her rage.

This was his game. She had learned the hard way that this was Murphy's source of amusement in his cage, and Clarke bitterly swallowed every retort that crossed her mind, even as the embers of hatred burned in her stomach.

The man was infuriating.

Lounging on the other side of the glass, Murphy acted like he was stretched out under in the Caribbean sun, waiting for a dark skinned server to deliver his next Mai Tai. From the moment she had first laid eyes on him, Clarke had known that only someone with Murphy's arrogance, only someone with his complete lack of empathy, could ignore the fact that his Caribbean sun was actually the strips of florescent lighting in the visiting room. That the dark skinned server was a scowling, bulky guard name Rivo. That he was serving out his last few days in Sing Sing Correctional Facility for second degree manslaughter.

And only someone like Murphy could not care.

But Clarke would not give up. Four years of bored, unfeeling eyes. Of games, and knives twisted into her heart, but she would not give up. She couldn't.

Straightening in her chair, Clarke glared back with determination and kept her voice level. "How can you sleep at night, knowing you've ended someone's life and destroyed so many others? He had a father. He had friends and a future_._"

Murphy paused, puffing out his chapped lips and rolling his eyes to the ceiling as he contemplated her words. Then he scratched thoughtfully at the stubble on his chin. "You know, I hadn't actually thought of that before. But since you asked…" He suddenly leaned forward, close enough that his words left little puffs of fog on the glass as he spoke. "I sleep like a baby."

Infuriated, Clarke slammed the palm of her hand against the glass, right in front of Murphy's face. The wall rattled from the force and Murphy reared back into the chair, startled and wide-eyed. For a moment, Clarke felt a sort of perverse joy wash over her anger at his unnerved reaction, even while her hand prickled and burned. Then his eyes drooped back down and he chuckled. Bored again.

"You know, Clarke, I'm really going to miss our little visits." Relaxed and casual, Murphy stretched back out in his beach chair under the sun. "Really miss you and your little childhood stories about Wells, how his father's never been the same since...miss you trying week after week to make me feel bad for what happened..." He looked around the barren room, reminiscent and almost regretful at the thought of leaving his island destination. "It's too bad this all ends tomorrow."

Clarke peeled her throbbing hand off the glass and clenched it into a fist in her lap. "That's what you think," she retorted, taking an even breath to steady her pounding heart. "Just because you're getting out of here doesn't mean you're off the hook. This isn't over."

Murphy perked up at her comment, then he started to laugh. It was a staccato, piercing sound that pricked at Clarke's skin and raised goosebumps on her flesh. Glancing over his shoulder, he looked to the guard to share in his joke. Rivo simply continued to scowl. Turning back, Murphy's laugher soon died down and he shook his head sadly at Clarke, like she was misunderstanding the simplest concept.

"No, actually, it _is_ over. And you know why? Because when I walk on out of here, I'm knocking back a couple whiskeys at my favourite bar and then I'm gone. I'm grabbing the first flight out of New York and you'll never see me again."

Clarke stared as a hollowness ballooned in her chest. For a moment, she couldn't breath. The topic of what Murphy would do after his release had come up on a number of occasions, but he had consistently avoided giving her any real answer. Clarke had always assumed he would be staying in the city. She always assumed that it would be possible to eventually track him down. The idea of him leaving, permanently disappearing from her life, had never crossed Clarke's mind. She wasn't prepared, and the hollowness quickly dissolved into bubbling panic.

"Time's up," Rivo barked, motioning with one tree trunk of an arm at the door.

"No," Clarke whispered, then louder as she leapt up from her chair and pressed her hand to the glass. "No, wait!"

Murphy stood as well and leaned in close, still holding the phone to his ear as a triumphant smirk spread across his face.

"Later, Clarke," he said with biting sweetness. "It's been real swell."

He returned the receiver with a final click that reverberated in Clarke's ear, and she smashed her fist against the glass.

"No! I _will _find you!" Clarke yelled through the glass. "Go anywhere you want, but you can't run from this! I won't let you!"

Ambling towards the door, Murphy turned back and looked at her with one eyebrow raised, appraising her furious determination. "You really don't quit, do you?" he said. The words were muffled through the glass but Clarke could still hear the threading of respect laced in. The door opened, and she pounded her fist once more against the glass. "It's over," he called to her as he stepped into the hall. "You lose."

"No! It's not over," Clarke yelled as Murphy disappeared from view. "It'll never be over_. Not until you're sorry for what you've done!"_

Her final word was punctuated by the sound of the door closing shut; heavy, like the lid of Wells's casket. Then all at once, Clarke was left with nothing. Nothing but the stillness of the room, the fire blazing in her heart, and the long ago promise she had made.

Murphy might have thought he was home free, but Clarke Griffin wasn't done yet.


	2. In Search Of

**TWO DAYS LATER**

Anya sat crosslegged on the floor of her apartment living room, carefully arranging items on the coffee table before her with practiced, reverent movements. As she prepared for the ritual ahead, streaks of orange light leisurely stretched towards her from the wall of windows at Anya's left, borne from the early Saturday morning sun as it glowed low and promising between the cracks of Manhattan skyscrapers. The room already felt buoyant and warm. Peaceful and still, as it enveloped Anya in its own soothing nothingness.

She liked this time of day the best. It was the only time she could really let her mind and muscles unclench into a comfortable neutrality. It was the only time she could escape the noise and hurried madness of the city before it seeped back in and found her. It was the only time she could truly forget to be on guard.

Finished with her preparations, Anya's nimble hands fell to her lap as she surveyed the arrangement before her. A folded square of terrycloth, a tin of beeswax, and a can of compressed air were lined up for use to Anya's right. To her left, laying atop a larger square of terrycloth in parallel columns to each other, were her six lethal combat knives.

Anya closed her eyes and took in a deep breath, allowing her chest to expand wide with the warm room air before exhaling out tension and memories of the previous night's job. Then she breathed in again, repeating the process until her ridged back lost some of its stiffness and shoulders drooped, creaking with release. Finally, she was ready to be neutral. To be light and floating like the specks of dust that drifted aimlessly about her in the morning's light. Opening her eyes, Anya was ready to begin the ritual of cleaning her weapons.

And then her cell phone rang.

Tranquility shattered, Anya slammed the palm of her hand hard enough against the table that even her weighty M9 Bayonet jumped. "Damn it," she seethed.

Uncrossing her muscular legs and standing up, Anya's long hair whipped around as she spun towards the bookshelf to face the noise. Heavy with yellowing dog-eared works of fiction, a handful of pristine first editions, and various hard covers of Tibetan art, Anya stormed over and reached towards the middle shelf for the leather bound fourth volume of Marcel Proust's _In Search of Lost Time_. Her fingertips found the notch, she pulled, and all seven book spines in the series slid forward to reveal the hidden compartment they attached to.

Peering into the compartment, Anya eyed her ringing smartphone with annoyance; the shrill sound blaring high and urgent. She knew who was calling from the simple fact that only one person called her at that number. It was the same anonymous person who had arranged for Anya to be slipped the phone seven years ago and started her current arrangement with a single call. The Employer. That was how the voice had introduced itself, and another name had never been provided. Nothing, in fact, was ever provided other than the details of each job and generous compensation for it. And as far as Anya was concerned, as long as the money kept coming, she didn't care about the who and why.

Except, of course, when they interrupted her ritual.

Punching the talk button and cutting through ceremony, Anya went straight to the point of the call. "It's done," she said flatly.

"Good," the Employer replied. The voice, as always, was distorted and unnaturally low pitched. Like a rumble of thunder sent through a software editor. "I trust the staging was not a problem?"

Anya's gaze flicked over to what remained in the compartment: a large ziplock bag containing a hooded black sweater, a man's wallet, and a battered cell phone. "There were no problems. I have all the items here."

"And did anyone see you?"

Anya paused briefly before answering. "Just one," she admitted. "It was enough to fit the staging, but not enough to make a difference."

A silence ensued as the Employer contemplated her information. "Very good, Anya. Retain the items for now. The remainder of your payment will arrive in the account before noon."

Anya glanced back at the coffee table and her abandoned knives gleaming in the morning sun. "Make it before ten. You interrupted me."

The Employer's chuckle was a short clap of digital thunder. "Very well. It's been a pleasure doing business with you, as always."

"A pleasure," Anya smirked, thinking of her swollen bank account. Then she hung up, returning to her weaponry and thinking of the Harkins Triton double edged switchblade with the black satin aluminum handle she'd buy herself later that afternoon.

* * *

><p>Clarke awoke with a start, thrown from a fitful sleep by the visions of blood and echoes of a hollow apology. Shaking and head pounding, she lay on her side and curled into a ball, scrunching fistfuls of the bed sheet under her chin as her heart madly hammered against her ribs.<p>

"It was just a nightmare," she whispered, as a sheen of perspiration cooled against her forehead. "It can't hurt you. It's just your brain trying to process what happened." Those were the same words her therapist had once told her and Clarke repeated the mantra a few times, willing her heart rate to slow down. And it helped – sort of.

Once the frantic beating had ebbed and her body had uncurled itself, Clarke looked over at her alarm clock to see the bright red numbers of 10:49 glowing back. At first the time surprised her, since she tended to naturally wake up around seven. Then she registered the sound of her roommate's voice – and Raven Reyes was no early riser – combined with the faint smell of coffee and bright glow of sun backlighting her window's roller shade, and realized there was no mistake.

It was late. Very late.

Throwing off the covers with a flourish, Clarke's foggy, tired brain ached with the sudden need to focus. There was still so much work to be done before her volunteer shift at the hospital in a few hours, and she cursed her body for shutting off its internal alarm clock. Evidently, it was feeling a little rebellious after two very late nights.

Quickly donning a T-shirt and a worn pair of jeans, Clarke sat down at her computer desk and scrolled through the pages of notes she'd made on her laptop, trying to remember where she'd left off before her brain had become too fuzzy with exhaustion and eyelids had turned into hundred pound weights.

Inwood, Fort George, Washington and Hamilton Heights, Harlem and East Harlem…

A knock at Clarke's bedroom door broke her concentration. "Hey, Clarke," Raven called from the other side. "You decent? Open up."

With a sigh of frustration, Clarke minimized the Windows screen. "One second," she called back, double clicking to open her most recent lab assignment. She then picked her hefty Stem Cell Applications textbook off the floor and set it on the desk, flipped to a random page about treating diabetes. Satisfied she was looking at any average biology major's desk space, Clarke stood from her chair and went to face Raven, mentally preparing herself for what was sure to be the topic of conversation. She dreaded it already; the fissure in their friendship that ripped wider every year.

Opening the door, Clarke found her roommate standing with arms crossed purposefully, the fingers of her right hand tapping fast just above her left elbow. There was a slight frown on her full lips, and her dark eyes were narrow with concentration. She looked, in a word, frustrated.

"What's up?" Clarke asked lightly, standing firm between the door and its frame.

Taking in her roommate's appearance, Raven's eyebrows hiked up in surprise and she took her time assessing Clarke from head to toe. "Damn, you look like crap," she murmured.

Raven Reyes: never one to mince words.

Clarke crossed her arms as well, wishing she'd thought of cover-up or at least looked in a mirror before answering the door. "What's up?" she firmly repeated.

Raven's frown deepened and hands jutted hard into the crooks of her elbows. "You know what's up. You've been AWOL ever since your last trip up to Sing Sing, and look like you haven't slept since last year. I know that Murphy kid's out now, so…" Raven's serious, steady gaze flickered just for an instant down to the floor before relocking with Clarke's. "So tell me it's over, and you're not actually out looking for him."

Clarke held her breath as she weighed her two available options. On the one hand, she could lie right to the face of her best friend, try to convince her nothing was going on, and secretly get back to work behind a closed door. It was the preferred choice, but Raven Reyes didn't become the top student in her mechanical engineering program by accident. Frankly, she was one of the smartest people Clarke had ever met. She picked up on things, made connections no one else did, and time after time had proven that Clarke couldn't hide her weekly prison visits with any success. Hence the arguments. On the other hand, Clarke could just come clean with Raven about her newest mission and risk the near guarantee of an angry hour-long earful like she did every time the topic of 'that Murphy kid' managed to come up.

_You're wasting your time on that Murphy kid, Clarke. That Murphy kid's just taking you for a ride. Why don't you get it? That Murphy kid will never change._

Clarke swallowed and kept her gaze level, already hating what she was about to say but reminding herself it was to avoid a blow up. "My chemical geonomics prof dumped a huge assignment on us. I've just been working really hard on it, that's all."

If the words had formed midair into a hand and slapped Raven hard across the face, she might have looked less angry. For a moment there was nothing but the bloom of energy as the air around them charged.

"Yeah?" Raven asked. Her voice was quiet, but heavily weighted from a history of bitter arguments. "Well that's real funny 'cause I could have sworn the reason you picked up that fine arts class this term was 'cause you had an easier course load."

"Raven, give me a break," Clarke pleaded, watching as her roommate's chin dipped down like a bull preparing to charge. She needed to diffuse the situation, fast. "I'm stressed out about applying to med school and keeping up my GPA…you can't expect me to be able to predict what my profs are going to – "

"Clarke, you're awake."

A warm, welcoming voice suddenly cut through the mounting tension, and both women turned to see Finn Collins padding down the hallway towards them. Dressed in the same white cotton T-shirt and flannel sleeping pants he wore every time he stayed the night, Finn kept his eyes on Clarke as he took his place at Raven's side and gently rested a hand low on her back. She looked up at him, and her shoulders slightly relaxed.

"Why don't you come have breakfast with us?" Finn asked, nodding back towards the kitchen. "There's some bread and eggs that actually aren't expired, so I was going to make some French toast." His words were light and casual, accompanied by a broad, almost cheeky grin that stretched across his boyish face as he attempted to circumvent their standoff. Finn Collins; ever the peacemaker.

Clarke returned his gaze for a moment before looking back at Raven, who was watching her closely. They were both waiting for her answer, and Clarke knew that with Finn there acting as referee, now was the best time to escape back into her room unscathed.

"I shouldn't. I really need to – "

"Clarke." Finn spoke firmly, and his eyes darted to Raven as she took a slow, silent breath in. Her lips pressed hard into a firm white line. Keeping his hand on Raven's back, like it was tethering her to that spot, he looked back at Clarke with a pleading expression in his eyes. "Come have breakfast with us. Please."

With a heaviness of guilt in her chest, Clarke rethought her plan. "Okay," she relented after a moment, giving them both a nod. "But just for a little bit."

The static buzz around them immediately fizzled out and Raven exhaled her full chest of air with a small, grateful smile to her boyfriend. "I'll grab three plates," she murmured before taking off for the kitchen.

Finn stayed where he was, and Clarke could sense him watching her as she stepped into the hallway and closed her bedroom door. "Hey," he said quietly, putting a warm hand on Clarke's shoulder. "You know she's just like this because she's worried about you. We both are."

Clarke met his eyes and saw that the boyish Finn was gone, replaced by a man who'd been broken by a world he couldn't fix. She gave him a brief, guilt-ridden nod before breaking free of his touch. "Yeah," she replied. "I know."

Ten minutes later, the apartment was warm from the heat of their stove and smelled of cooked eggs and cinnamon. Sitting across from Raven at their kitchen table, Clarke's stomach growled impatiently as Finn set down a stacked, steaming plate of French toast and popped the lid on a half finished bottle of Aunt Jemima's maple syrup.

"Dig in," he encouraged, sitting down in the empty chair between them.

Clarke ate hungrily to the sound of scraping cutlery, unable to ignore Raven's watchful gaze. It felt like she was waiting for Clarke to bolt up and flee the room. As a distraction, Clarke went and fished their remote from between the sofa cushions, noting that both Raven and Finn relaxed when she sat back down. Turning on the TV and flipping briefly through the channels, she stopped at a news clip replaying New York Governor Dante Wallace's most recent campaign speech. Taking another bite of French toast as it dripped with syrup, Clarke watched as Governor Wallace stood before a cheering crowd, framed by the cool grey stone and red peaked towers of the New York State Capitol. He spoke with confidence, promising voters that if re-elected, he would continue his mission of making the great State of New York 'a better place for our children', as the campaign slogan went. Within a few seconds, however, a newscaster's voiceover made it clear that the focus of the clip was actually Wallace's daughter-in-law, Dr. Carol Tsing.

Standing off to the side, the newscaster quickly accused the good doctor of not playing her role of supportive family member like her husband, Cage Wallace. As his father's campaign manager, Cage was ever cognizant of public appearance and stood dutifully next to his wife, watching Dante wave for the cameras with a proud smile on his face. In contrast, Tsing's focus was on the ground. Or rather, as the newscaster pointedly indicated, it was on the cell phone she was trying to discretely hide in her hands as she clasped them in front of her. Thumbs moving rapidly over the device, it was obvious that she was texting.

"That's not fair," Clarke commented to the room. "The hospital will text my mom about patients all the time. She can't just ignore them."

Although the newscaster offered no explanation, he was quick to judge when the camera cut back to him. "It hardly instills voter confidence when not even the Governor's own family will pay attention to what he says," the man ruthlessly chided. "Since her big win in the primaries, Senator Diana Sydney is sure to surge ahead in the polls now. Stay with us when we cover her appearance at the New York City Supreme Court later today - "

Finn got his hand on the remote and decidedly switched the channel. "Next," he declared, flipping past a few children's anime cartoons and a cooking show before settling on 'Toddlers & Tiaras'. "Ah, my favourite," he teased, wagging his eyebrows at Raven.

There was a beat, but then she laughed good-naturedly in response and they spent the rest of the meal critiquing pink puffball dresses and hairstyles that defied gravity.

* * *

><p>It was just coming up on 2:30 p.m. when the elevator doors opened and Clarke walked onto the oncology floor of Lower Manhattan Hospital. As usual, it was buzzing with briskly walking nurses and doctors making their rounds in white lab coats. Cutting left and walking back towards the quieter hallway of offices, Clarke shifted the stack of various clinical notes and records she held in her arms. The load was heavy, made heavier by the weight of her exhaustion, but despite the workload and third late night that awaited her once her shift ended, Clarke actually found herself smiling.<p>

The hospital was, in a way, comforting.

Listening to the squeak of her runners against the linoleum, Clarke remembered the time she was six, giggling and carefree as she chased after Wells through the surgery wing and her father chased after them both. She remembered when she was eleven, holding the hand of a tearful boy and explaining how Dr. Jackson was setting his broken leg. And another time when she was nineteen, scrubbing up to watch her mother perform a laparoscopic hernia repair. Maybe the combined smell of hand sanitizer and urine did sometimes trigger a gag reflex, and maybe it wasn't so fun when patients were vomiting on her, but to Clarke, the Lower Manhattan Hospital was her home away from home. And one day she would be on the payroll.

Coming to a stand in front of the first office, Clarke's attention refocused and she read 'Carol Tsing, MD' off the door's shiny silver nameplate. Although she could count on one hand the number of times she'd actually spoken to Tsing, and although she doubted the doctor even knew her name, Clarke knew by reputation that she was a dedicated and brilliant oncologist. It was just a shame the media seemed to forget that, especially around election season.

Reaching for the door, Clarke was just about to knock when it suddenly flew open and she caught the angry face of Cage Wallace before he barreled straight into her. Clarke stumbled back a pace and probably would have reeled further had Cage not quickly caught her by the shoulders.

"I'm so sorry, pardon me," he exclaimed. Holding onto her a moment longer, Cage ensured Clarke was steady on her feet before letting her go. "I must apologize – I should have looked where I was going. Are you all right?"

Recovered, Clarke smiled back reassuringly, studying the man's face. She'd seen it a handful of times on television, but not once in person or so close. Intrigued, but only in so far that he was Tsing's husband, she found herself noticing the small scar that jutted through his upper lip, and the way his skin seemed so thin, it laid bare the blue veins that ran up his temples and across his forehead. He was handsome enough, though, with a straight nose and sharp jaw. His slicked back hair and fitted suit certainly suggested education, affluence, and wealth, but Clarke had been involved enough with politics to know everyone in the game kept an agenda in their back pocket. If she let him, Cage would apologize until there wasn't any more air left, but only because he wanted to keep – or gain – her vote.

"Yeah, it's okay. I'm fine," Clarke nodded with finality. "Really."

"Good, I'm glad." Cage smiled back sheepishly, readjusting the Windsor knot in his tie before extending a hand. "By the way, my name is – "

"What's going on out here?" Looking over Cage's shoulder, Clarke spotted Carol Tsing standing in the doorway of her office, looking quizzically from Cage's back to Clarke herself. "Cage, did you nearly bowl this poor woman over?"

"Oh, uh, no," Clarke cut in, stepping around Cage to put herself between him and his wife. She didn't know why the man had looked angry when he had left the office, but now knowing that Tsing had been in the room as well, Clarke had to wonder if it was because of her. "I was delivering some clinical notes for a few of your patients and just ended up being too close to the door. It was my fault."

Tsing smiled kindly as she accepted a few files from Clarke's armful. "That's all right, there's no need for you to take the blame. I'm sure it was all my husband's doing after he stormed out of here." Shooting Cage a scathing look, she added; "Some people don't seem to appreciate when those around them are doing _work._"

Cage let out a frustrated sigh from behind Clarke and moved so that he could better face his wife. "Carol," he warned, leaning in and speaking so quietly that Clarke could barely hear. "You know how much is riding on this election. Let's not do this again."

Tightlipped, Tsing's coconut skin flushed a shade of red and she tugged hard on the lapels of her lab coat. "Fine," she breathed. "Provided that next time there's an emergency, you explain to my patients how important their lives are in comparison to your father's career." Then it was Cage's turn to flush red as Tsing regained her composure and turned to Clarke. "Thank you, Miss...?"

"Griffin," Clarke supplied, hoping her desire to make a fast exit wasn't written all over her face.

* * *

><p>Less than an hour later, Clarke was completing some data entry in the emergency ward when the commotion started.<p>

"Get me a doctor. Get me a doctor right now!"

Head spinning with alarm towards the front entrance, Clarke spotted a cop barking orders at a young triage nurse named Mel while she came around to look at the young woman he had his arm around.

"Bellamy, stop," the woman pleaded. Hugging her right arm to her chest, she broke free of the cop's grasp and stood between him and Mel with a strained expression on her face. "I'm not going to die, and you can't just barge in here and expect people to drop everything."

Clarke found herself stepping away from the computer screen, warily gauging whoever this Bellamy person thought he was and running through a list of possible diagnoses for the woman in her head.

Fractured collarbone, bicep tendon tear, dislocated shoulder…

Bellamy, meanwhile, clenched his jaw and shot a menacing look at Mel, like that was exactly what he expected people to do. Reaching a bit gingerly for the woman, he escorted her to one of the waiting chairs and helped her sit down before kneeling at her feet. "Octavia," he said, in a slightly calmer tone, "let me handle this."

Clarke took a step closer, sensing that things were about to get worse as Mel picked up a pen and clipboard of paperwork from the nurses' station and started to explain to the pair how to fill out the forms.

Bellamy stood and spun, his dark face turning darker still when he saw the clipboard. "What the hell did I just say?" he barked. "My sister needs a doctor, so go and get one!"

"Bellamy," Octavia snapped from behind him. Curled slightly into herself, her long dark hair fell forward like a black curtain. "Sit down already and let's fill out the stupid forms."

Mel, much to her credit, held her ground and raised an eyebrow as Bellamy loomed over her, glaring with hands on hips. "Sir, I need you to calm down and – "

"Forget this!" Done with waiting, Bellamy stormed past Mel and started to charge towards the back of the ward, presumably in search of someone he could strong-arm into doing his bidding without the hassle of paperwork. Mel followed in his wake, shaking the clipboard at his back and demanding he sit down.

"Bellamy, stop," Octavia called after him, standing and joining in the pursuit. "Come back here, you idiot! The doctors won't see us until the paperwork's filled out!"

Thinking of the chaos that was about to ensue, Clarke hurried into Bellamy's path and stood directly in his way. "Stop," she ordered when he nearly collided into her. "I can help."

Blinking down at her, Bellamy took one look at Clarke's blue volunteer polo and badge clipped to her jeans and crossed his arms. "Good. Go get someone. I'll be waiting right here."

"Sir," Mel repeated. There was no mistaking the annoyance in her voice as she caught up to them. "Please sit down. The rest of the ward is restricted and – "

"Bellamy, quit being a jackass." Octavia's face was white from pain, and she grabbed at her brother's bicep with her good hand. "I can't fill out the forms with my arm all jammed up."

"It's okay," Clarke said loudly, holding up her hands for silence. Turning to Octavia, she gestured to a bed near the back of the room with a drawn curtain. "Let's go over there and I'll take a look at you."

"_What?!_" Bellamy spat. "Forget it! You're not a doctor. Hell, you're not even a nurse," he argued, narrowing his eyes at Clarke in disgust. "Just go do something useful and get me someone with actual medical training."

Clarke's nostrils flared at the insult. "_I've_ got actual medical training," she shot back. Turning to Mel while Bellamy sputtered, she held out her hand for the clipboard and gave a nod. "It's okay, I've got this."

Noting how Bellamy towered at least a head over Clarke's small frame and looked capable of tearing off both their heads, Mel hesitated. So Clarke reached over and took it from her. "Fine. He's your problem now, then," Mel warned. Shooting one last wary glance at the fuming cop, she washed her hands of them and walked away.

Once Octavia had taken a seat on the hospital bed and the curtain had been drawn, Clarke shoved the clipboard in Bellamy's direction. "Fill it out," she ordered.

Bellamy glanced at Octavia, who looked back at him expectantly, and took the clipboard with a grumbled "Fine."

Satisfied, Clarke turned to her patient. "So…it's Octavia, right? My name's Clarke. Why don't you start by telling me what happened?"

Octavia nodded. She was pale, and flinched as Clarke helped her carefully take off her T-shirt. "Diana Sydney was at the Supreme Court today for a campaign event, and I was assigned to take some pictures for my campus paper. Maybe even get a quote." She looked up at Clarke and forced a proud smile. "I'm enrolled in journalism at NYU." Hissing in pain as the T-shirt came off, she continued explaining how there'd been so many people in attendance, she'd ended up climbing a nearby tree to get a better vantage point. "Except it turns out I'm not a very good climber because I lost my grip and fell. Bellamy's shift had just ended so he was coming to pick me up. He saw the whole thing and flipped out."

At the sound of his name, Bellamy looked up from the form he was reading and frowned at Octavia's pointed look. "Next time just push people out of the way and go to the front. That's what you media people do anyway, isn't it?"

With Octavia's upper body exposed, it was easy for Clarke to see what was wrong. A large lump protruded from the top of her right shoulder. "Octavia, have you ever injured this arm before today?" Clarke asked.

"No, never," Bellamy quickly responded. Wide eyed, he crowded Clarke while going in for a better look, moving close enough that she got a whiff of his cologne. "Geez, what the hell is that?"

"Paperwork," Clarke reminded him. He stepped back and she gently prodded the affected area, checking for swelling and fractures as she spoke to Octavia. "That would be your shoulder joint. You must have dislocated it when you fell."

"Great," Octavia responded. Her teeth were clenched and a bead of sweat rolled down her temple as she looked at the lump. "So pop it back in and let's get this over with."

Clarke nodded in agreement. There didn't seem to be any broken bones, so a closed reduction technique would probably be enough to slide the joint back in place. Running through the procedure in her head, Clarke got into position.

"Whoa, whoa, whoa, hang on," Bellamy demanded, putting out a hand to stop her. "Do you even know how to do that? This is my sister we're talking about."

Clarke took Octavia's right arm by the elbow and wrist and slowly moved her hand until Octavia's forearm was at a ninety degree angle from her body and elbow was pressed against her side. "Sit up as straight as you can," Clarke instructed. Then, with a quick glance at Bellamy, she swallowed passed a sudden lump in her throat.

"My best friend was a wide receiver on our high school football team," Clarke began. Moving the hand at Octavia's elbow to just grasp beneath the woman's bicep, she twisted Octavia's wrist slightly upwards and slowly pulled the forearm back. "In our senior year," Clarke continued, "during one of the last games of the season, the quarterback threw him the ball and he was running to make the pass when a linebacker hit him from behind." Feeling resistance, Clarke stopped and carefully moved Octavia's bicep forward and away from her side. With one more step to go, Clarke held firmly onto Octavia's wrist and began to bring the forearm slowly back to Octavia's chest. "His muscles were already starting to spasm by the time I got on the field. He was in too much pain to even stand, so I ended up putting his shoulder back in right on the fifty yard line." Octavia let out a sudden, sharp sigh of relief, and Clarke watched the bulge in her shoulder disappear as it slipped back into place.

Stunned, Bellamy dropped the clipboard on the bed and wrapped one arm around his sister's waist, pulling her uninjured side protectively against his chest. Lowering his head against Octavia's hair, he smiled with surprised relief. "She did it," he murmured to himself, seeming unable to believe it.

"Oh, _geez_, that feels better," Octavia gushed, beaming up at Clarke as she hugged her arm and leaned against her brother. "Thank you. Your friend was lucky to have you around."

The sharp pang in Clarke's heart made it difficult to return the smile. "You'll need to keep your arm in a sling for at least a week, and you should still get X-rays just to be safe."

At the mention of a sling, Octavia's smile dropped into a frown. "Great. That'll make finishing my assignment real easy," she grumbled in sarcasm.

"Don't worry about that. I'll help you out," Bellamy promised.

Instead of comforting her, the words caused Octavia to recoil. "No you're not," she stated, looking up defiantly at her brother. "Your vacation starts today. You're supposed to be camping in Vermont all week."

Bellamy made a face, as if the idea was repellant. "Like hell I am. You're right handed, O. How do you expect to get anything done?"

"I'll figure it out," Octavia shot back. "Just stop treating me like some kid who can't do anything."

"Hey, I've got an idea," Clarke jumped in as Bellamy's jaw clenched. "Octavia, you wanted to get a story on the elections, right? Well, Thelonious Jaha is a family friend. He works with Diana Sydney and Governor Wallace, so I could ask him if he'd be up for an interview."

Octavia's eyes grew wide with delight, no doubt thinking of the kind of inside track she could get with Thelonious as a knowledgeable source. "Seriously?!" she exclaimed. "That would be awesome!"

Bellamy, however, shot Clarke a confused look, mixed with something else she couldn't quite name. "Wait, you're talking about Senator Jaha? The guy whose kid died five years ago?"

Clarke nodded, and suddenly the lump was back in her throat. "Yeah. And that kid's name was Wells." Before either sibling could respond, Clarke hastily fished her cell phone from her back pocket and waved it at them. "Let me call Thelonious right now and see what he says."

Quickly exiting the curtained off area, Clarke looked at her phone and took a deep breath. She hadn't actually talked to Thelonious in a while. It was hard for them both, but maybe her phone call would be the first step in rebuilding what they'd lost. Besides, she was starting to like Octavia and felt badly for her. Bellamy had to be one of the most pushy, overprotective, hot-headed men she'd ever met, so arranging an interview definitely felt like the right thing to do. Before she could dial, though, the devil himself stepped out and joined her.

"Hey," Bellamy said quietly, dividing his gaze between Clarke's shoulders and the floor. "I, uh…wanted to come out here and talk to you." He coughed, clearly uncomfortable, and Clarke suppressed a smug smile at seeing him fall so far off his high horse. Honestly, it served him right. "You didn't have to do any of that stuff for Octavia," he continued, scratching at the back of his head. "But you did. So…thank you."

Then, finally meeting her eyes, Bellamy smiled. It was a small, soft, caring smile, and it melted away his hard exterior to reveal the youthful man beneath.

It took a moment, mostly due to shock, but Clarke soon found herself grinning back. Bellamy was still a jackass, but looking at him she was amazed how much a smile could change a person. Actually, now that he wasn't scowling and yelling at her, Clarke found that he wasn't half bad looking.

"Happy to help," she replied. "Octavia was lucky it was such an easy fix. I've seen a lot worse."

"Yeah, I guess so," Bellamy answered, and the look Clarke hadn't identified before was back in his eyes, like he couldn't quite figure her out.

"Excuse me, Clarke Griffin?"

Turning, Clarke came face to face with a woman in a blue blazer. Her blonde hair was pulled back in a tight bun, and she flashed a police badge. Beside her, Bellamy tensed.

"My name is Detective Sam Byrne, and this is Officer Miller," the woman explained, nodding at the older man in a uniform who stood just over her shoulder. "We'd like you to come down to the station with us and answer a few questions."

Clarke blinked in confusion, unable to comprehend why a detective would want to ask her anything. "Answer a few questions about what?"

"Yeah, Byrne," Bellamy asked. He looked hard between Clarke and the detective with suspicion in his eyes. "What's this about?"

Coolly, Detective Byrne raised one eyebrow at Bellamy. "What do you think, Blake?" she asked. "There's been a murder."

"A murder?!" Clarke exclaimed, as her head began to spin. "Whose?"

Byrne looked back at Clarke with cool detachment in her eyes. "Someone I understand you knew quite well, Ms. Griffin. The victim's name was John Murphy."


End file.
